


Found Days

by skoosiepants



Series: Beach Dog [1]
Category: All-American Rejects, Backstreet Boys, Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Hush Sound, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco, The Cab
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-03
Updated: 2008-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:18:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon has a habit of handling Pete the same way he handles his twelve-year-old daughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Found Days

**Author's Note:**

> So it seems like each time I finish an AU I say that it’s my favorite world to play in, but seriously, this is totally my favorite world to play in for reals. It’s a future fic in a world where all the bands are the same except Panic, and Brendon and Jon both have kids. I kind of love it a lot. I even made art! Massive thank yous to insunshine, for beta’ing this even though she didn’t feel well *hugs* This is not actually kid fic. It’s about Beach Dog.
> 
> [download the soundtrack](http://community.livejournal.com/muse_to_match/8781.html)

 

  


 **PART ONE**

 **July 2020**

Brendon has a habit of handling Pete the same way he handles his twelve-year-old daughter.

“Come on,” Pete says. “They’re Patrick approved, Urie, I don’t know a better endorsement than that.”

Brendon wrinkles his nose at Spencer, who’s sitting across the room behind his drum kit. Spencer grins at him, and he still has the most fantastic grin Brendon’s ever seen. “It’s not how we work,” Brendon tells Pete. He tries to be firm, and resists the urge to say _because I said so_. Lissa always takes that as the first sign of weakness.

Pete sighs. “Look. Look, it’s been over two years since _Find Your Own Way_ dropped, dude, and you’ve got, what, like, three songs?”

“Three _awesome_ songs.” Brendon’s been emailing Wheeler about scheduling recording times, and Greta’s making happy noises over the demo he’d sent her, so they don’t need freaking _lyricists_.

“I’m not arguing that.” Brendon can hear Pete’s smile. His smarmy, smug smile; the one he flashes when he knows he’s going to get his way. “Just meet with them. Smith _knows_ Ross. He said he’s looking forward to playing with him, it’ll be perfect.”

Brendon narrows his gaze, tightens his fingers around the cell. “Spencer’s a dirty whore traitor.”

“Hey,” Spencer says. He thumps the kick-drum.

Brendon jabs a finger at him. “Dirty. Whore. Traitor.”

“Great,” Pete says. “Walker and Ross’ll be there Tuesday.”

“We didn’t—Pete—”

“Hey, hey, if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out. Just try it, okay?”

The sad thing – the truly, epically pathetic thing – is that Brendon sucks at handling Pete, and he’s not really all that much better at handling his twelve-year-old daughter. This is exactly how Lissa ended up with a nose ring.

Pete hangs up before Brendon can put up more of a fuss. He presses the top of the cell into his chin. “Spencer,” he says.

“I just said I knew him,” Spencer says. He rolls his eyes. “Brainstorming can’t hurt, though.”

Brendon nods slowly. “Uh huh, that’s how it starts, Spencer Smith. And then we’ve got a whole album of showy pop tunes and the only collaborations we can get are the Backstreet Boys, right, or maybe Jesse McCartney.”

“You love pop.”

“I love pop. I don’t want to sing it. Although, okay,” he flips his cell onto his duffle, “I could work with BSB.” He snaps his fingers. “Maybe that handsome woman song, dude—”

“The one that’s basically got one line written?”

“One completely and totally genius line,” Brendon says. He picks up his guitar and absently strums out the melody, but sings about Spencer being a massive douche instead.

Spencer chucks a drumstick at him.

Brendon flattens his hand over the strings and sticks his tongue out. If he were closer, he’d knuckle Spence in the ribs.

This is, more or less, how their writing sessions have progressed over the past four months, ever since they ended their hiatus. Spencer might have a point. There’s no way in hell Brendon’s ever telling Pete that, though.

*

Brendon really thinks it’s all Zack’s fault. “This is all your fault,” he tells Zack.

“Someone has to be the man in this family,” Lissa says, and Brendon points at her and says, “Stop talking. Oh my god, stop talking.”

Lissa widens her eyes and lets her lips fall into a pout, but it doesn’t work on Brendon, no way, because Brendon totally patented that expression years and years ago. Brendon is fucking _immune_.

He glares at Zack and flails his hands a little. “You! You let her.” He flails some more, and Zack just crosses his arms over his chest and arches an eyebrow, because Zack is pretty much the coolest guy Brendon knows. Brendon makes an embarrassing noise that he totally refuses to acknowledge and drops his head down on the countertop, total face plant. It doesn’t even hurt, for real. “Ow,” he says, softly.

“It’ll grow back?” Lissa offers tentatively, and Brendon feels a small hand on his arm.

“That’s so not the point,” Brendon says, voice muffled. So his daughter shaved most of her hair off – her gorgeous Urie hair, and she’s totally going to regret that once it starts growing back in, and she has to deal with the fucking cowlicks of doom – but mainly it would be super cool if Lissa and Zack could at least _pretend_ that Brendon’s the dad here. That he has some kind of control.

He sighs and turns a little so he can catch Lissa around her waist, drag her close. “I loved your hair,” he says into her neck.

She pats his back. “I know, Dad,” she says, and Brendon knows, knows so hard, that she’s rolling her eyes at him, which is totally Spencer’s influence.

Brendon says, “You suck.”

“Zack made macaroni and cheese,” Lissa says, and Brendon immediately brightens, because Zack totally got that mac and cheese recipe from his mom, and it’s kind of the most delicious comfort food ever.

“Zack’s my hero,” Brendon says. He pulls back, and Lissa’s grinning at him, and Brendon can almost pretend there isn’t some sort of dead weasel on her head. Maybe if he squints, and holds up his thumb.

Lissa slaps at his hand and Zack grunts, and it sounds suspiciously like a laugh, but when Brendon narrows another glare at him he’s stone-faced, even though his cheeks are disturbingly rosy.

Brendon can’t catch a break. Seriously, they just gang up on him. He puts up with a lot of shit for his family.

*

Brendon’s perched on the end of a lounger and he waves Kit into the house when he shouts across the yard, “Hi, Mr. Urie,” soccer ball tucked under his arm. “Can Lissa come out and play?”

Kit Walker is three and a half feet of awesome.

Kit Walker’s the new kid across the street, and he’s super polite and grins a lot and is completely and hilariously in love with Lissa. Brendon thinks his mom’s pretty great, too. He’d totally be all over that if he was at all interested in ladies anymore. The women of the world wept brokenly the day Brendon Urie and his fantastic ass came out, it’s true.

“Go for it, little man,” Brendon says. He tells Spencer, “Kit Walker’s totally going to marry into the family,” and he’s one hundred percent serious. He’s pretty sure that’d be the best thing ever.

“Kit Walker’s eight,” Spencer says.

“Kit Walker can take Lissa to prom,” Brendon says.

Spencer blinks. “Kit Walker’s _eight_ , dude, and Lissa’s got a long way ‘til prom.” He looks a little green. Brendon sympathizes, because he’s pretty sure he’d prayed for Lissa to stay frozen in time back when she was six and still Brendon’s sweet baby girl.

Brendon lazily drags the bow across his fiddle, then launches into the chorus of Slow Down Stop. He hums Travis’s _slow slow slow_ , arm sweeping smoothly.

They’re in Brendon’s backyard, because they’ve been through Spencer’s basement, Spencer’s garage, Brendon’s basement, Brendon’s living room, and they’re still stuck. He wants to rhyme folded with Tudor, and Spencer wants to punch him in the face. Brendon’s backyard at least has a pool.

“I want to sing about summer,” Brendon says, arms dropping.

“We’re not writing a song about your pool.” Spencer’s got one drumstick and a tambourine in his lap. Spencer totally hates the tambourine, but they’d wisely decided not to set up his kit outside, since the last time Spencer complained for weeks about it being _buggy_. “Also, you shouldn’t be allowed to have a kid, Jesus, what the _hell_ happened to—”

“Zack let her,” Brendon says, just as Lissa calls out, “Uncle Spence!” from the back door.

Spencer waves and says to Brendon, “Zack’s finally been compromised. A _mohawk_?”

Brendon shakes his head. “I think he just lets her do these things to torture me. It’ll grow back, at least.” Zack has always been able to tell Lissa no when it’s important. It’s one of the reasons he’s worked out so well.

“We’re going over to Kit’s,” Lissa says, and Brendon says, “Hold his hand crossing the street,” and Lissa rolls her eyes.

“There’s no traffic, Dad,” she says, and Brendon goes into What Would Zack Do mode and tells Kit, “Hold her hand,” because Kit’s staring up at Lissa with freaking stars in his eyes, and he’d probably hold her hand for forever if he could. At some point, Brendon’s sure that’s going to get creepy, like when either of them are actually old enough to date.

“Anyway,” Brendon says. “Anyway, summertime means the viola, the triangle, maybe some hand bells.”

Spencer stares at him. “I’m not playing hand bells.”

“You’re right, you’re right.” Brendon nods. “That’s more, like, dead winter, ice castles, Christmas and shit. How about the xylophone?”

Spencer chucks his drumstick at his head. “I hate you.”

Brendon sighs and drops back on the lounger, stares up at the blue, blue sky. “When’s the dynamic duo getting here?”

“Tomorrow,” Spencer says. “Nine fifteen, my house, don’t be _late_ , Urie, or I’ll kick your ass.”

“I won’t,” Brendon says, because he’s actually looking forward to it now. Over the past thirteen years, Beach Dog has put out six critically acclaimed albums, and one commercial flop – their first, _Softly_ , an instrumental lullaby album for Lissa, performed with half of The Hush Sound before they were Hushies. It’s Brendon’s favorite, and oddly enough the indie EP that had originally caught Pete Wentz’s attention, even though the re-release on Decaydance had barely caused a ripple – and Brendon hesitates to say he’s out of ideas, but there’s some sort of block in his brain, and not even a two year long hiatus has helped.

“Gerard called,” Spencer says, suddenly looming over Brendon. “They want to do the cure for death song, so long as we don’t call it Cure For Death.”

Brendon grins. “Sweet.”

*

Brendon’s first impression of Jon Walker is that he’d be really awesome to cuddle with. He’s got close-cropped hair and a neatly trimmed beard and a smile that lights up his entire face. He’s wearing a v-neck tee with the collar stretched and he has actual boy stamped all over those nicely loose jeans, which is a novelty, since Brendon and Spencer both still squeeze into girls’ pants, despite being in their mid thirties. He’s waiting for Lissa to notice and call him on being totally embarrassing, sort of like she does whenever he says _awesome_ or _cool_ out loud, but until that day he’s gonna rock his capris and tight, tight slacks.

His first impression of Ryan Ross is that he might actually cut him if he got too close. And not, like, out of spite, but just because his bones are made of jagged glass or swords or something. He’s got a thing for scarves, too, even though it’s July in the _desert_. Brendon thinks maybe he’s skinnier than Bill Beckett. It’s slightly off-putting.

Spencer shakes Ryan’s hand and they both grin sheepishly, and Brendon remembers Spencer saying they knew each other, even though he didn’t say from where.

Jon keeps his hands in his pockets, and Brendon resists the urge to bounce him into a full-body hug. He thinks it’s a little early on in their relationship for that. Brendon can totally be reserved when he wants to be.

Brendon shoves one hand in his front pocket and rocks back on his heels, giving a little wave with the other. “Hi,” he says. “Great to meet you.”

Jon bobs his head, still smiling. “Ditto.”

Ryan turns creepy huge eyes on him. He licks his lips and looks _hungry_ , and Brendon has a split-second of sheer terror before he says, “ _Holy Places_ is one of my favorite albums ever. It’s genius, the way you used James Hetfield for Walk On, John Coltrane,” and Ryan does not look like a fanboy at all, so Brendon blinks, startled.

“Uh. Thanks?”

Jon laughs and says, “We’re both fans, seriously.”

Brendon feels his cheeks heat a little. It’s kind of embarrassing. He rubs his face with his palms and grins. “Okay, well, um. I was thinking, like, an album about summer?” He ignores the glare Spencer’s aiming at the side of his head, because he’s not going to sing about his _pool_ , Spencer Smith. Brendon is not that lame, no matter what Lissa says.

Ross flicks the end of a scarf over his shoulder. “What do you have so far?”

They’re in Spencer’s basement. It’s their starting off point when they’re in writing mode, even if they end up in, like, Brendon’s mom’s attic – although that’s only happened once, and they’d scared the crap out of her, and so, while the yelling had been kind of hilarious, they’re basically banned from turning up unannounced at the Urie household.

Jon and Ryan both showed up with guitars, which is great, since Brendon only has two guitars, a bass, a banjo, two fiddles, a trumpet, a French horn, maracas and a spinet packed into the soundproofed room. He leaves most of his weirder instruments at his own house.

Brendon breaks out his favorite acoustic and plays them the tentatively titled Steal My War. “We’ve got AAR for that one,” he says when he’s done singing, and he’s still feeling that fucking blush, because Ryan is staring at him and Jon’s already got his own guitar out, feeling out the notes for himself, grinning, and it’s kind of awesome.

Spencer settles behind his kit and they churn out the half a song they have for the Hushies, and then Cure For Death – which is totally going to end up being Cure For Death, fuck Gerard, now that he’s gotten that into his head. They play the music they’ve got for Handsome Woman. At some point they order food and Brendon flips open his notebook, giving them bits and pieces of their half-assed efforts over the past several months. When Ryan starts making suggestions and Jon ducks down by himself in a corner of the room, bent over his guitar, well. It’s comfortable. Brendon finally feels like they’re getting something _done_.

And then Ryan ruins it by being an asshole.

“You have to sing it lower or it won’t work,” Ryan says, hands on his hips. It’s the fiftieth fucking time he’s said that, and Brendon can’t fucking _go_ any lower.

“And who the fuck do you suggest we get to sing it, then?” Brendon asks, because, Jesus Christ, it’s not like their pool of singers are, like, fucking _basses_.

Ryan actually _stamps his foot_. “What the fuck, anyone can—”

“He means softer, dude,” Jon cuts in smoothly.

Brendon flaps his hand. “And he couldn’t fucking _say_ softer?” He doesn’t really say it harshly, though, because he’s wound up, yeah, but he’s also really fucking tired, which means—“Shit.”

He glances at Spencer, and Spencer rolls his eyes. “Zack called while you were arguing about tenses. They’re having dinner without you. And ice cream.”

Brendon wrinkles his nose. He hates missing out on ice cream.

There’s a thump and a snap and Jon’s giving them a little grin, shrugging as he hefts his guitar case. “I should get going anyway.”

“Okay.” Brendon nods jerkily, and he doesn’t know why he suddenly feels awkward. It’s totally weird.

“I’m staying with Spence and Haley,” Ryan says, flicking his hair back off his face.

Brendon’s eyebrows arch up, but Spencer just glares at him. Whatever. Brendon resists planting his thumb and forefinger on his forehead, but he still mouths, “ _Loser_ ,” at him, because Spencer is such a loser, not telling him anything at all about his old buddy Ross. Haven’t they known each other since fucking high school? Haven’t they struggled through the Brent Fiasco together, as well as the great Band of Alexes Disaster of oh nine?

Spencer cocks his hip and smirks.

Brendon ignores his blatant assholery and checks his watch. It’s just after seven. If he hustles, he can maybe still make it home for dessert.

*

Brendon feels a little stupid when he steps outside to get his paper and sees Jon across the street, doing the exact same thing. And then he shakes it off, because what the hell, Walker’s a totally common name, and this is just a huge coincidence – there’s no reason Brendon _should_ have known.

Brendon grins, gripping the plastic wrapper of the circular – he doesn’t actually get the news except on Sundays for the comics – and asks, “Relations?”

“Ex-wife,” Jon says. He rubs the back of his neck, dipping his head.

“Oh, hey, I guess that means Kit only gets half his awesome from his mom,” Brendon says, and then he kind of wants to punch himself in the throat, because what the fucking fuck, how lame can he possibly be?

Jon laughs, though. “No way, that’s all Cass.” He leans against the mailbox, and Brendon tucks his hands under his armpits and crosses the street. If Jon’s divorce is this amiable, Brendon’s totally going to get some flirting in.

“So. Confession?” Jon says when Brendon bounces up onto the curb next to him. “I kind of knew you lived here. Kit pretty much talks about Lissa nonstop.”

Brendon nods. “He’s in love. I’m already planning the wedding, dude. I’m thinking a Southern belle theme, you know, when Lissa no longer looks like she’s in a Cure cover band.”

“Dad,” Lissa yells on cue, and Brendon glances over his shoulder to see her hanging out of the front door. “Tell Kit we’re gonna be _late_. Why’re you still in your pjs? You didn’t forget, did you?”

Brendon totally forgot. No worries, though. A quick change and he’ll be ready to roll, and Spencer’s probably had this on his calendar for weeks, because Spencer’s a planning fool, so it’s not like he’ll be skipping out on practice.

Kit tears out of the house seconds later and jumps off the front stoop with this enormous duffle, decked out in his pink Indian Princesses shirt, and Jon, to his credit, just blinks.

Brendon leans towards him and whispers, “It’s okay. He’s not actually the only boy.” While traditionally for father-daughter bonding, there are enough unconventional families in the area that their local troop of Indian Princesses has a total of three boys and one scary-ass grandmother.

“But—”

Brendon pats Jon’s shoulder. “We’re spending the day at the Family Fun Spot. Water slides and go-carts, Jon Walker. Wanna come?”

*

Zack’s the responsible one, which is why Brendon blows fifty bucks on a tube of SPF 45, two pairs of sunglasses and a ginormous beach towel at the Family Fun Spot shop. Zack has a whole day-trip regimen, and Brendon’s sure Zack lectured him on this before they left the house, but Brendon sometimes tunes Zack out when he’s lecturing. He is totally not going to tell Zack this.

“Harry Potter?” Lissa says, nose wrinkling as Brendon spreads out his awesome new towel.

“Harry Potter’s cool,” Jon says. He’s sprawled out on a lounge chair by the lazy river, huge, white-framed sunglasses perched on the end of his nose.

Lissa rolls her eyes. Brendon knows Lissa secretly thinks Harry Potter is awesome, but for some reason she’s started denying her pure Wizard love. Brendon’s not saying anything, but he thinks it has something to do with last winter, and the day she came home from school without her beloved Hufflepuff scarf.

“Go on,” Brendon says, waving Lissa off.

Kit’s hovering behind her, dancing on the balls of his feet. Even though they’d arrived en masse, the rest of the Indian Princesses had taken off for the giant tube slide already, and only a few of the dads are lingering around Brendon and Jon. Lissa gets along all right with the girls – and boys – but they don’t really interact very much. In the month since Kit’s arrival, it’s been Kit-and-Lissa, and then everyone else.

Brendon sighs and sinks down onto his chair as they run off. It kind of hurts to see Lissa so out of touch with her peers. It’s, like, some sort of Urie curse, he’s sure. He’d never fit in too well himself until he’d met Brent and Spencer.

“I can see why he likes her,” Jon says.

Brendon grins over at him. “Yeah, because you don’t live with her.” Brendon loves his daughter, but Lissa is and always has been a total terror. He thinks it’s worse with Zack around encouraging her, but he can’t be sure, seeing as how he’d snagged Zack right off the tour circuit when she’d been a teeny tiny baby. Head of Beach Dog festival security or baby nanny – Brendon suspects it’d been kind of an easy choice for the big guy to make.

Jon snorts, and Brendon belatedly realizes maybe that was a tactless thing to say, since Jon doesn’t even live in the same state as Kit, but he doesn’t say anything. Just sort of grimaces to himself and laments about how Jon probably thinks he’s a total _moron_.

“So all this relaxing shit is fun,” Jon says eventually, “but I’m pretty sure that twenty foot drop is calling my name.”

Brendon grins. “I can totally hear it too, Jon Walker. It’s calling you a pussy.”

Jon pushes his shades up on top of his head and shines his amazingly happy brown eyes on Brendon, and Brendon gets a giddy bubbly feeling in his gut, because Brendon is totally a fifteen-year-old girl.

“That sounds like a challenge, Urie,” Jon says.

“Slide races?” Brendon’s already on his feet.

“You’re so on.”

*

“Jon Walker is a bronzed god,” Brendon says, walking into Spencer’s kitchen the next morning. “If only my pasty skin could shine so.”

“So this is embarrassing,” Ryan deadpans from the breakfast counter.

Jon bites his lip and ducks his head and Brendon just grins, because Brendon Urie does not shirk on bets, and Jon won their go-cart race by a full lap, no matter the fact that he’s a dirty rotten cheater.

Brendon claps his hands. “How do you boys feel about making beautiful music together?”

Jon honest-to-god giggles into his coffee.

*

Lissa has approximately three hundred and fifty things going on during the summer, because Zack is a firm believer in keeping active. She’s got soccer and Indian Princesses, she’s got water ballet, guitar and piano lessons – she’d refused to let Brendon teach her, and Brendon is totally not bitter about that at all – and she’s got day and weekend trips with the community center – horseback riding, camping, cook-outs, tubing, the zoo.

And she’s got two weeks before school starts with her mom in LA.

“You’ve got your phone,” Brendon says.

Lissa holds up her sparkly pink cell and says, “Duh.”

Brendon shifts anxiously on his feet. Zack helped her pack, so it’s not like he’s really worried she’s forgotten anything. He just hates when she goes away. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, be good for your mom.”

“I _will_ , Dad, come on, I’ve gotta go.” She darts a look over her shoulder.

The UA employee escorting her to the gate smiles at Brendon, but looks phenomenally bored.

Brendon sweeps Lissa into a hug. “Call me when you land,” he says, then slips her a five and makes meaningful eyebrow waggles.

She rolls her eyes. “I know how to tip, Dad, geez,” she whispers, shoving the money in her shorts pocket.

Brendon almost ruffles her hair, but figures his hand’ll just get stuck. He’s half-hoping Audrey will do something to make her look a little more presentable before school, even though Brendon suspects Lissa gets all her crazy genes from her – Zack thinks he’s delusional and takes great joy in bringing up what he calls the Unfortunate Tattooing Incidents during his teen years, but what the fuck ever, Zack, Brendon’s piano keys and flowers _rock_.

Lissa grabs his arm and jumps up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, and then Brendon watches forlornly as she’s swallowed up by the crowd around the security checkpoint.

He tugs his cell out of his tight front pocket and dials Audrey. “She’s off,” he says into her voicemail, because they rarely talk these days, and he’s pretty sure she screens his calls. Zack contacts her about all the important stuff. “LAX, four fifteen, um, one checked bag. Make sure she _calls_ me.” It’s happened before, where they get caught up in whatever they do and Lissa ends up calling him in, like, the middle of the night, because Brendon is totally a trusting dad and he isn’t going to hound her when she doesn’t immediately check in, even though she should totally always _immediately check in_.

When he gets home, Kit’s sitting hunched over on Brendon’s front stoop, looking miserable. It’s a strange mood on him.

Brendon settles down next to him, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. He sighs.

Kit kicks out a foot, scuffing his sneaker on the concrete. “This sucks,” he says.

“Totally.” Brendon bumps their shoulders together. “Wanna order a pizza and drown our sorrows in pop and Twizzlers?”

Kit smiles a little, looking up at Brendon from under his bangs. “I’ll get my dad.”

*

Jon Walker is the most amazing man to hang out with. He’s completely and totally relaxing, and Brendon hardly fidgets at all through _3 Ninjas_ , except he’s dying to try out a high kick, so he’s actually probably fidgeting a whole lot.

“You’d pull a groin muscle, man,” Jon says, and Brendon mentally adds telepathy to the list of Jon’s many awesome qualities.

Brendon pouts, though, and says, “I’m not that old.”

Jon just arches an eyebrow at him. He’s slumped down on the couch, a coke can balanced on his stomach. Kit’s on the floor, bracketed by Jon’s legs and leaning halfway towards the screen, completely enamored. Brendon understands. The movie’s pretty cool.

Brendon’s leg bounces, because he’s thinking about the cake Zack left him. Zack always leaves him a cake when Lissa visits her mom. It’s chocolate, with cool whip icing, and he thinks maybe Zack crushed some Oreos on top. He hasn’t given it a decent perusal yet, ‘cause he’s not sure he wants to share. The Walkers are awesome and all, but this cake has to comfort him in his time of need. He’s already given up his Twizzlers and Sour Patch Kids.

Jon reaches over and presses a hand onto Brendon’s knee, and Brendon instantly stills. It’s actually kind of weird.

“Dude,” Jon says. “We can leave?”

“No, no.” Brendon shakes his head. “No, I’m.” He’s such a fucking _spaz_. He needs to, like, seriously consider giving up sugar. He lets out a noisy breath. “I’m totally keyed up,” he says in a rush, and he thinks he has to be imagining the way Jon’s eyes darken, because the next second Jon blinks and his mouth quirks with humor and Jon just says, “No kidding.”

Kit twists around and looks up at them. “Can we swim?”

Brendon tilts his head and calculates approximately how long it’s been since they polished off the last of the candy, thinks it’s been at least a half hour, and nods. “Sure, okay. Jon?”

Jon shrugs. Jon shrugs a lot, actually, and that might have bothered Brendon on anybody else – it’s sort of passive-aggressive, right, when you use it that much – but Jon just seems to use it as a generic lets-roll-with-it gesture, and Brendon thinks that’s cool.

“We’ll get our suits,” Jon says, getting to his feet, pressing one hand on the top of Kit’s head. “Let’s go, kiddo.”

Kit grins the biggest grin ever up at his dad and grabs his hand, using it to pull himself up, and Brendon can tell Kit pretty much adores Jon, and that’s nice to see. Lissa and Audrey love each other, but they’re not that close, really, and Brendon suspects Lissa takes after him a little too much for Audrey’s comfort. He knows he used to bug the shit out of her when they’d been dating.

Brendon spends fifteen minutes contemplating which shorts to wear, so by the time he’s got his Patrick the starfish ones on, Jon and Kit are already in the pool; he can hear them splashing before he even slides open the back door. He takes a running leap and does a cannonball into the deep end.

Jon has a strong back. Brendon wants to rub it or rub up against it or something. He feels a little weird thinking these thoughts while Jon’s tossing Kit around in the pool, but seriously. That’s one hell of a back, possibly nicer than Spencer’s even, and Spencer has a classy back, all broad and shit.

Brendon hits Jon in the head with a wet noodle.

Jon lunges for him, and Brendon can’t get away fast enough, and Jon ends up half on top of him, an elbow bent on one shoulder, other arm snaking around Brendon’s chest, and Brendon sinks like a stone.

Jon’s laughing when he splutters back out of the water.

Kit is too, and Brendon wags a finger at him and says, “You better watch yourself, mini Walker. I’m totally like an eel.”

“An eel,” Jon echoes, mouth twitching.

Brendon is totally offended. Brendon was practically _born_ underwater. He can hold his breath for forever, seriously. He slips under again and skims along the concrete bottom. The chlorine stings his eyes and he’ll be mainlining Visine later, but it’s worth it to be able to grab Jon’s ankles and yank him off his feet.

“You realize this is war now,” Jon says when they both break surface again, panting. His hair is plastered to his forehead.

Brendon grins. “Bring it.”

*

“I’m in love with Jon.”

“Three weeks ago you were in love with Jorge the mailman,” Spencer says, making stern faces at his laptop screen. It’s Spencer’s bill paying day, so they’re in Spencer’s office, because Spencer is an anal freak.

Brendon nods. Jorge totally rocks the summer uniform. But he’s no Jon Walker. “This is the real deal, Spence. We had _water wars_. He quoted _Spaceballs_ , and then we watched _Bring It On_ , and he totally knows all the words to Mickey.”

Spencer shifts and gives him the stink eye. “Bren.”

Brendon says, “He’s just really fun,” leaning forward to rest his elbows on Spencer’s desk, cupping his chin in his hands. He doesn’t have the best dating history, though, so he kind of understands Spencer’s concern.

Spencer smiles a little. “Won’t that make Kit and Lissa’s union sort of incestuous?”

Brendon giggles. “That shouldn’t be funny.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, but he’s still grinning, even when he turns back to his computer. “Okay.”

Spencer is Brendon’s best friend. They’ve been best friends since senior year of high school, when Spencer transferred into Palo Verde and the only kid he knew was Brent. They’ve been best friends since Beach Dog’s early days, back when Beach Dog was a Blink-182 cover band and still had four members. Trevor was easy to forget, but Brent was the loss that’d stung. Still stings a little, because they’d been close, the three of them, only Brent hadn’t actually believed in Beach Dog, not really.

When Brendon had written Walk On, John Coltrane and said he’d wanted Metallica to perform it with them, well, Brent had sort of laughed in his face and told him good luck. Spencer had nodded and gotten on the phone to track down James Hetfield’s manager. So Spencer is Brendon’s best friend, and Brendon can’t see that changing anytime soon. Except there’s still the small matter of Ryan Ross.

“So what’s the deal with you and Ross?” Brendon asks.

Spencer shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Spence, come on. Old friends? You never mentioned him before.” Brendon gives him his best pout, and Spencer arches an eyebrow without looking away from his screen.

“Not a big deal,” Spencer says. “He’s a little older. We lived near each other growing up, went to the same school, but then he moved away for college. Chicago.” He glances over at Brendon. “Where he met Jon.”

Brendon rubs a thumb along the edge of the wooden desk, bites his lip. “I’m just curious. I mean—”

“Oh my god, Brendon.” Spencer slaps his hand down over Brendon’s. “You’re not being replaced, Jesus Christ, I still love you best.”

“Of course you love me best,” Brendon says, nodding, because he totally never doubted that, for real. “I’m awesome.”

“Dork.”

“Loser.”

“Leave before I kill you,” Spencer says.

Brendon hops to his feet, grinning. “Yes sir.”

*

Brendon likes having Jon and Ryan with them, he honestly does – Jon seriously gets cooler every single day – but right around the time Lissa gets back from her mom’s, he starts getting an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Walker and Ross are a pretty slick duo in the music industry. After Pete had foisted them on Beach Dog, Brendon had looked them up, and they’ve got album credits out the ass. Even Toro had brought them in for a sticky part on their fifth album, and Toro and Gerard are notoriously touchy and protective about their songs.

So the problem now, as Brendon sees it, is not that they’re being helped by them, but that they’re writing _an entire album_ with them, and after over a month Brendon’s starting to lose that yay-we’re-getting-stuff-done feeling, and gaining an uncomfortably awkward we’re-wasting-time one. That isn’t exactly _accurate_ , because he knows the songs they’re writing are amazing, but. It’s just that this is starting to feel like a Walker-Ross-Urie-Smith album, which is, like, completely not what Beach Dog is about.

“This is great,” Brendon says when they finally get the refrain on the wax pond song down, when they finally _agree_ , “but we can’t use it.” He flicks a look towards Spencer, and Spencer has his lips pursed, but Brendon’s pretty sure he gets it, knows why.

Ryan, though, makes a choked sound and whips his guitar strap over his head, then disappears upstairs. There’s a stunned silence. Brendon’s not sure if he expected that reaction or not, but Ryan’s been pretty volatile over the past few weeks, arguing fiercely over words and notes.

“It’s not.” Brendon flounders, feeling suddenly helpless, and Jon’s frowning at him, a shade of hurt in his eyes. Brendon glances at Spencer again, but Spencer shakes his head, looking almost as lost, spots of color high on his cheeks.

Jon says, “Hey, it’s okay,” even though he sounds confused, even though his knuckles are white, fingers tight around the neck of the bass he’s been using.

And it’s so obviously not okay, not really. Brendon doesn’t know what to do, how to explain, but he figures he needs to find Ryan first. He retreats from Jon’s hang-dog expression and hurries up the steps out of the basement.

Ryan’s making a sandwich in the kitchen. He’s got what looks like a good half of Spencer’s fridge spread out all over the counter. Haley might kill him, but Brendon isn’t going to mention that.

Butter knives can totally do some damage, so Brendon keeps a safe distance and says, “Hey.”

Ryan’s back tenses. He tilts his head, giving Brendon half a profile. “You’re an ass,” he says eventually.

“No, look.” Brendon spreads his hands, takes a deep breath. “Look, Beach Dog is me and Spencer, right—” Ryan’s shoulders twitch into an even straighter, tighter line, and that’s not what Brendon _meant_. He steps closer, like Ryan might bolt. “Beach Dog is me and Spence. It’s getting awesome bands to, like, sing backup, duet, jam with us, play something outside their comfort zone,” sometimes he’s still amazed that actually _happens_ , “and you—Ryan, I don’t think I can—”

He’s totally fucking this up, he knows this. Fuck.

“This song is ours— _yours_ , Ryan,” he finally says, and it comes out more exasperated than he’d wanted it to. “It’s not mine. I can’t sing it, and I can’t give it to, like, fucking Justin Pierre or, or Jesse _Lacey_ , dude.”

Ryan turns a little towards him, frowning. He’s no longer holding a knife, so Brendon counts that as a small win. “I’m not a performer. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we trash these songs—”

“ _All_ of them?” There’s a moment where Brendon thinks maybe Ryan’s going to cry, and then his face falls blank. “What the fuck.”

“We set them aside,” Brendon amends, then says slowly, “Pete wants us to put out a Beach Dog album. _I_ want to put out a Beach Dog album.” He fucking loves Beach Dog. He loves the concept, the country-wide festivals, even though they’re few and far between and a bitch to schedule. But he’s kind of having the time of his life right now, with just the four of them. “And then I want to do whatever the hell it is we’re doing together.”

*

Brendon has no idea what Ryan says to Jon. Both of them kind of close down after Brendon’s announcement, which is totally unprofessional and whatever, _rude_ , but Brendon can see where they’re coming from. They maybe think they’ve been wasting their valuable time, but they _haven’t_ been, they totally haven’t been—Brendon just can’t get that through Ryan’s abnormally thick skull.

Spencer calls Brendon the next day and says, “They’re leaving. Well, Ryan’s leaving, Jon’s staying an extra week for Kit or something, but then they’re.” He pauses, then says a little quieter, “Bren, talk to Jon.”

“Is Ryan—”

“Ryan,” Spencer wavers, “gets it. Kind of.”

Brendon’s apparently a little cowardly, because he doesn’t actually want to go talk to Jon. Or, rather, he really, really wants to go see Jon, but he doesn’t want it to be weird, and he doesn’t want Jon to give him sad eyes or something, and he maybe wants to hug Jon and, like, curl into him and maybe kiss his stupid face. He sighs. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Today.”

“Yes, _today_ , Spence, I promise.” He tangles his fingers in the hem of his shirt. Today Zack has them gardening, it says so on Brendon’s giant kitchen calendar. So maybe not today. “Okay, so maybe not today,” he says.

“Bren—”

“Zack will totally kick my ass if I don’t weed!” Brendon says defensively.

“You’re serious,” Spencer deadpans, and Brendon thinks he’s been spending way too much time with Ryan. Maybe it’s a good thing he’s leaving.

Brendon is three seconds away from whining, he can feel it.

“I will kick your ass if you don’t walk across the street and talk to Jon right now,” Spencer says, and then he hangs up, like he just expects Brendon to do exactly what he’s told, the fuck.

Brendon harrumphs. He turns his cell off with a vicious finger jab.

He wastes a half hour changing out of his pajamas, then wastes another fifteen minutes with Lissa, perched on the couch arm, watching cartoons. He doesn’t actually move until Zack walks into the room and stares him down. Brendon suspects Spencer called him.

“Fine,” Brendon says, “geez.”

Brendon takes his sweet old time crossing the street and ambles up the path towards the Walker front door because he knows Zack is watching him from a window, and Brendon is immature and proud of it. He’s doing what he’s told, but he doesn’t have to like it.

And then he thinks about Jon, and Jon’s mouth and the way he has the very slightest of lisps when he says certain things, and Brendon’s grinning when Kit opens the door at his knock.

“Don’t you ask who it is?” Brendon asks, because that’s totally one of the rules Zack’s drilled into both his and Lissa’s heads. Crazy stalkers and kidnappers and creepy dudes that tie you up in basements are a complete possibility.

Kit blinks up at him. “Um. Who is it?”

“Not now, smart ass,” Brendon says, then cuffs his head lightly. “Your dad home?”

“In the kitchen with Mom,” Kit says, then tugs on the shank of hair falling over his eyes and asks, “Can I, um, is Lissa busy?”

“She’s watching cartoons.” He nudges him out the door. “Go on, I’ll tell your mom where you are.”

“Cool, thanks, Mr. Urie,” Kit says, because he’s so polite and, like, _darling_. Seriously, he’s Jon in miniature, down to the adorable little flip-flops he’s sporting.

Brendon shakes his head and steps further into the house. He’s only been in there twice before, but he’s pretty sure he remembers where the kitchen is, towards the back on the right, and he almost calls out Jon’s name.

He almost does, but he doesn’t, and afterwards he’s not sure if it would’ve been better if he had. He clutches the jamb, hangs just outside in the hallway, and Cassie’s got her hands in Jon’s hair, and Jon’s cradling her face between his palms, and their heads are so close, noses touching, skin flushed, and Brendon just.

He goes kind of numb. It’s unexpected, to feel that rush of _nothing_.

He forgets what he’s supposed to say. He’s not sure his throat would work anyway, so he backs away before they can notice him and retraces his steps to the front door, down the stoop and across the street.

Zack takes one look at his face and frowns, but doesn’t say anything. Kit’s camped out on the floor in front of the den TV, and Brendon’s upset, yeah, but he’s still responsible, and after gulping down a glass of water he very carefully dials Jon’s number.

He says, “Kit’s over here,” when Jon gives him a breathless hi. “I told him I’d let you know.”

“Thanks, hey, um. So about—”

“Spence and I, we,” Brendon blurts out. “We want you guys back, you know that right?”

There’s a pause. Then Jon says, “Yeah. Yeah, we know.”

“There’s something—we _have_ something, the four of us, and I don’t.” Brendon digs a palm into his eye socket, feeling dumb, because god, maybe this, like, happens all the time for Jon and Ryan, right? Maybe they aren’t anything special.

“Brendon,” Jon starts, slow and deliberate, and Brendon doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to hear whatever Jon’s going to say about anything, not yet.

The numbness is steadily giving way to this burn in his belly, and Brendon clenches his fingers around his cell. “I have to go,” Brendon says.

Jon sucks in a breath, asks, “Are you—are you okay?” and Brendon bites his lip to keep down a hysterical giggle, because what the fuck.

Brendon needs to get over himself. Jon’s awesome, and Brendon has a harmless little crush, but like. He maybe still needs some _time_ here.

“I’m fine,” Brendon says. Peachy keen, yep.

“Sure? You sound a little. Off.”

Brendon says, “No, I’m good,” forcing a smile onto his face even though Jon can’t see it, probably can’t even hear it in his voice, and Zack, watching him from the doorway, has gone from frowning to scowling, expression on the edge of is-there-someone-you-need-killed. Zack’s kind of Brendon’s favorite. Brendon’s smile turns a little real.

“Seriously, Jon,” he insists. “Everything’s cool.”

*

It’s actually easier after Jon and Ryan leave. Something clicks, and Spencer and Brendon finish half a dozen more songs within a month. They’ve even got some bands in mind – Brendon still totally wants to get BSB for Handsome Woman, seriously, he can see Spencer and his little fanboy self wavering – but it’s not. It’s just not as _fun_ anymore.

Spencer says, “So I should call Pete.”

Brendon drops his head in his hands, because he really isn’t sure he wants this part of his life to end. Even when they’d been on hiatus, there hadn’t been any doubt about coming back to this. “I wanna sing Found Days with Greta,” he says.

Spencer nods. “Yeah.”

“And I want Eagles of Death Metal for the nameless piano ballad. We maybe need a harpsichord.”

“I’ll ask Patrick,” Spencer says. He puts a hand on Brendon’s back, rubs circles low and soothing.

Brendon kind of feels like crying. “God, this is stupid.” He swipes a hand over his face, gives a choked laugh.

“It’s not. It’s not stupid,” Spencer says softly, and Brendon knows Spencer’s just as broken up about this as he is. It’s been their entire _life_. They’ve got months of recording, then months ‘til they tour, but even just thinking about it all ending makes something squeeze tight around Brendon’s heart.

Brendon sniffs, reaches back to catch Spencer’s hand and tug him into a hug, back to front. “The festival’s gonna fucking rock.”

Spencer’s chin digs into the top of Brendon’s head. “Best ever.”

*  
 **PART TWO**

 **July 2021**

The line-ups for Beach Dog festivals are ridiculous, but two months into the tour everyone’s used to drawing straws. It’s a little surreal, having My Chemical Romance occasionally open up for the Backstreet Boys, but it’s the spirit of Beach Dog, and if they hadn’t wanted to participate, they wouldn’t have agreed to be on the album in the first place. Everyone knows how Beach Dog works.

“The Cab got the top spot for tonight,” Brendon tells Spencer, and Spencer makes a face, because Spencer still isn’t talking to any of the Alexes. When Pete had suggested DeLeon for Tanked, Spencer had said no and Brendon had said maybe, and then Spencer hadn’t talked to Brendon for an entire week, because he’s a freak. “Spencer, seriously, it’s been twelve years. I think you can let it go.”

Spencer glares at him. “I’d rather not,” he says, and Brendon rolls his eyes. It’s the only thing Spencer’s ever been irrational about, and Brendon’s not even sure what had actually _happened_ , because no one involved will ever say anything about it.

Whatever. As long as Spencer and DeLeon and Johnson and Marshall don’t choke each other out on stage, Brendon’s willing to let it slide.

“Anyway, that means we need the harpsichord _and_ the tuba set up today, since Eagles of Death Metal are opening,” Brendon says, fingers drumming on his thighs. It’s easier when they perform Tanked and There’s A Lily In The Valley on different days, but it’s unfair to everyone if they start making decisions like that. Beach Dog festivals are kind of a nightmare to put together, for all the amazing fun they are to play.

Spencer eyes him suspiciously. “You’re jittery.”

“I’m always jittery.”

“You’re hyper, you’re not—are you nervous?” Spencer asks, and Brendon is not nervous, no, but they’re. They’re in Chicago. It’s a pretty big deal.

“Jon called,” Brendon says. “I put them on the list.” Brendon’s been talking to Jon on and off since last September, and it’s been fine. It’s been totally cool and nice and _pleasant_ and several other adult words, he’s sure. It’s just. He hasn’t _seen_ him, and Brendon is totally over his crush and all, but he doesn’t know how he’ll feel, face to face. He doesn’t want it to be awkward.

Spencer slides an arm around his shoulder. “Hey.”

“It’s, we’re,” Brendon bounces on his feet, spreads his hands, “we’re good. I’m good.”

“It’s still weird,” Spencer says, like he’s trying to be soothing, only Brendon could deal with not having the weird factor brought up like that. That’d be nice.

“I don’t want it to be.” Brendon turns a little, pressing half his face into Spencer’s neck, wrapping his arms around his waist. Spencer’s at the best height for comforting hugs.

Spencer brings up his other arm to make the hug more official. “We can tell him not to come,” he offers.

“Yeah, that’ll totally go over awesome with our future bandmates.” It’s not the first time Brendon’s said something like that out loud, about having them as bandmates, about that possibility, but it still gives him a shaky thrill, like it’s something horrible and exciting at the same time.

“Dad, dad!”

Brendon glances over just in time to see Zack scoop Lissa up over his shoulder. She arches up and twists around and shouts, “Dad, Kit’s here! He just texted me, can we go find them?”

“Too late anyway,” Spencer murmurs in Brendon’s ear.

Lissa and Kit have been texting nearly nonstop all summer, and the only reason Brendon allows it is because both of them are kind of epically lost without each other.

Zack has a hand on the middle of Lissa’s back, holding her steady. He’s got one eyebrow arched in question, and Brendon rolls his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, let’s go.”

*

Jon looks the same. Which means he looks _great_ , and Brendon’s extremely conscious of the fact that he’s wearing the same t-shirt he’s worn for the past four days, that his jeans haven’t been washed for over a month, and that he probably smells really, really bad. Jon gives him a hug anyway.

“Dude,” Jon says, and Brendon thinks maybe he holds him a little too long, but whatever. Jon Walker hugs are kind of epic, Brendon has learned, and it’s been an entire fucking year.

“Where’s Ryan?” Brendon asks when he finally wriggles out of Jon’s hold.

Jon’s grinning. He’s grinning and he’s looking ridiculously _fond_ , and Brendon feels a dangerous fluttering in his stomach because, wow, that look is totally not fair at all. Jon shrugs. He says, “With Pete and Mikey, I think,” and, “What’s your schedule looking like?”

Theoretically, Brendon and Spencer have a lot of downtime, since they only perform one or two songs per artist’s set, but they’re kind of involved in every little detail anyway, just from being Beach Dog, so some days Brendon barely has time to eat. Some days, he doesn’t see Lissa at all until Zack’s getting her ready for bed.

Making time for Jon would be a bad idea.

“Not good,” Brendon says, and pretends he doesn’t see the way Jon’s face falls, just before his mouth tugs up in a small, rueful smile.

“Yeah, okay,” Jon says, nodding. “This must keep you busy.”

This is so fucking awkward, Brendon thinks. He wishes Spence had come with them.

“Um.” Brendon bounces a little, slides his hands into his pockets. “Wow, this is weird.”

Jon’s eyes widen, and he looks like maybe he’s gonna grab Brendon’s arm, and Brendon takes a hasty step back and almost trips over a thick tangle of wires, because he’s totally extra spazzy today, it’s so embarrassing. He forces a smile.

“I meant, like, I haven’t seen you in forever,” Brendon says. “And it’s great that Kit’s here.” The festival’s heading up to Toronto next, and then they’re overseas for two weeks - one performance in England and one in Germany - before they close out the tour in Las Vegas. Brendon knows Lissa’s having fun, that she’d rather be here than stuck with her mom all summer, but this is probably the highlight of the entire tour for her, having Kit around again.

“He’s missed her,” Jon says softly.

Brendon bites his lip. “She’s totally missed him, too.”

*

Chicago is a hometown crowd for some of them, one of the reasons they chose the city, so the vibe is good. Fall Out Boy is _on_ , and The Hush Sound draws a huge crush of fans, even though they’re opening up the last day.

Brendon ends up hanging out with Nick Carter in the wings after Beach Dog’s finished with Kiss Kiss, since BSB drew Sunday’s top billing. Nick is totally not what Brendon had been expecting. He’s kind of an ass, yeah, but Brendon’s used to Pete, and Nick’s mostly harmless. He’s got an infectious grin when he’s in the mood, he’s great with Lissa, and he’s more than decent on the guitar. Brendon’s kind of been making out with him every once and a while all tour.

Brendon’s a _rockstar_ , okay. He’s a responsible adult and a dad, but he’s totally allowed to have some fun on the side.

“So,” Nick says. “Walker seems nice.”

Brendon eyes Nick warily. It’s an odd comment, particularly when Brendon’s got his hand in Nick’s back pocket. They aren’t doing anything, but the possibility’s there. “Okay,” Brendon says. “He is.”

“Maybe we should cool it.”

An even _odder_ comment, considering there isn’t a whole lot to cool in the first place. Brendon likes Nick, but it’s not going anywhere, and both of them know it. And then Brendon panics a little, because this means his residual crush on Jon is _obvious_ , and he wonders if everyone can see it.

“I’m not.” Brendon tugs his hand out of Nick’s pocket, waves it around. “I’m _over_ him,” he says.

Nick scrunches up half his face. “It’s okay.” Brendon opens his mouth to protest and Nick says, “Seriously, man, it’s fine. This’s been fun, right?”

Brendon nods. He’s not exactly sure what just happened, but he thinks Nick Carter’s dumped him. It’s kind of funny actually. Nick’s, like, forty. And in a boyband.

Nick punches his shoulder and ambles over to talk with AJ and Brendon ducks his head and goes off to look for Spencer, to maybe make some sense of this. He finds him playing cards with Kit and Lissa and Brendon curls up behind him and tucks his chin onto his shoulder and says, voice low, “Nick Carter just dumped me.”

Spencer laughs. He bends over and laughs and laughs and messes up the pile of cards, and then he starts coughing he’s laughing so hard.

“It’s not that funny,” Brendon says, poking him in the side.

“It’s.” Spencer shakes his head, wiping at his face as his giggles die down. “It’s hilarious, Bren.”

Brendon’s mouth twitches. “Is not.”

“What’s funny?” Lissa asks, and Brendon does not want to get into that with her, especially not with Kit here.

“Nothing,” Brendon says.

Spencer presses the heel of his palm against his mouth, shoulders shaking from the effort not to burst out laughing again. Brendon totally appreciates his restraint. He’s such a great friend.

“No, really, what’s so funny?” Lissa asks again, a mulish twist to her mouth.

And then Jon’s walking up behind her, eyebrows arched, and he says, “Is Spence all right? Is he—is he having some sort of seizure?” and that sets Spencer off again, and he’s kind of incoherent with hilarity.

Jon smiles at Brendon. It’s maybe not as big as it was last year, but it’s real and still _Jon_.

Brendon says, “Tour madness?”

Jon nods. “Okay, yeah, I’ll buy that.”

Spencer’s got his hands pressed to his cheeks, face blotchy red and tears streaming and he can’t catch his breath. Brendon pats his back comfortingly and clucks his tongue.

*

Canada is tough for everybody. Brendon knows it’s a little because he’s off himself – he’d left Jon on an awkward note, still, and Lissa’s been a nightmare since they left Kit, and Zack’s sort of at the end of his patience with her; Brendon doesn’t blame him, she’s seriously being a _brat_ – and a little because they’re frantically planning for the trip overseas, and the atmosphere is a lot less relaxed.

The shows are good, though, and the crowd seems to have a blast, and that’s all that matters, in the end.

“Okay,” Brendon says to Lissa. She’s leaving a day before them, heading for LA, and he’s not freaking out, exactly, but he doesn’t like sending her off from an unfamiliar airport. “You’ve got your phone.”

“Dad, oh my god.” She huffs and pushes her hair back off her forehead. The shaved parts have grown in and the mohawk’s been trimmed down to a hot mess of curls, and she’d look like a really pretty boy if she hadn’t been wearing a pink ruffled skirt and a sparkly unicorn tank. “Please be less embarrassing.”

Brendon casts a glance around the nearly empty lounge and says, “Who’re you trying to impress?” and then almost groans when she flicks a barely perceptible look towards the totally too old for her airport employee sent to escort her through security. He’s, like, at least twenty-five, and Brendon feels dull panic settle in his belly, oh god. She _just_ turned thirteen. Brendon is never ever letting her date.

“Aren’t there older, more decrepit Air Canada people who could do this?” Brendon says.

The guy’s eyes go round. “Um.”

Lissa goes red. “ _Dad_.”

Brendon is well aware that Lissa is just moments away from hating him forever. He sighs. “Liss, I love you.”

Her head drops and she scuffs a sneakered foot on the thin carpeting and gives him a resigned, “Love you, too.”

He tugs her close and hugs her tight, even though she isn’t really hugging him back, arms folded against his chest. He slips a five into the crook of her elbow when he lets her go and catches the curve of a smile under her dipped head.

“Call me when you land.”

“I _know_.”

“Good,” Brendon says. Then gives the security guy – Tad, his nametag says – a tight, I’ll-fuck-you-up smile that turns smug when he sees him swallow convulsively. Nice to see he can be almost as intimating as Zack when it counts. “See you in two weeks.”

Lissa waves over her shoulder, and Brendon stands and watches her until she disappears around a turn.

*

In England, Spencer has a blowout with The Cab. Like, a spectacular fucking mess, complete with yelling and punches, and their stage performance that night is stiff, and Spencer’s way too aggressive on Tanked. Singer and Spencer both have rapidly blackening eyes, Marshall has a fat lip and a fist-sized bruise just above his collarbone, and Cash – who isn’t even _in_ on the whole Spencer versus the Alexes war – somehow manages to sprain his ankle, so he’s propped up all night with a stool at his hip, face lined with the strain. The only ones who end up unscathed are Ian – who’s always claimed Switzerland - and Johnson. Brendon’s too on edge to think much of that until later, until he sees Johnson, jaw clenched, shove at Spencer’s back until they fall into an unlocked door and disappear.

He almost follows, because Johnson can be fucking devious, he knows, but Cash clamps a hand over his shoulder.

“Leave it, dude,” he says.

“I don’t know if I should.” Spencer really fucking hates The Cab. Brendon really likes them, but Spencer always comes first.

Cash shakes his head. “They’ve got some shit to work out,” he says, and it’s been twelve freaking years, so yeah, they’ve probably got lots of shit to work out.

Brendon says, “Okay, that isn’t really, like, enough of a reason to let them kill each other.”

“It’s been twelve years, man,” Cash says, impatient. “Twelve years, and it was a fucking stupid fight anyway, and maybe if Smith wasn’t such a stubborn asshole—”

“Hey,” Brendon says. He would honestly love to know what the fuck is going on, but he’s not gonna let Cash toss out insults like that, no matter how true they might possibly be.

Cash grins. He claps Brendon’s back and says, “They were dumb kids back then, Brendon. It’ll be fine.”

*

Spencer finds him later in the grassy amphitheater, sprawled out on his back. Brendon’s thinking about Lissa and thinking about Jon and thinking about Beach Dog, and how they’re three weeks away from the very end. One of the clouds hanging high in the still sky looks like a fat, fluffy cat.

“It’s nothing,” Spencer says, plopping down next to him.

Brendon leverages up on his elbows and takes in the sickly bruise around his left eye. “Yeah, it looks like nothing.”

Spencer’s cheeks pink, and they puff up a little, like he’s holding in a breath. Finally, he shakes his head and says, “I was a little in love.”

Brendon sits all the way up and grabs for Spencer’s arm, torn between shouting, “Tell me more!” and, “Why the fuck didn’t I know?” He settles on a slightly incredulous, “What?”

“It ended badly and, fuck, I was _twenty-one_. I—” His voice goes low. “I had no idea what I was doing, and Marshall called me on it.” He shrugs. “Things got fucked up quick.”

“You and. Johnson?” Brendon’s still stuck on this whole Spencer-in-love business, back when all Spencer could ever focus on was the band, and how they were ever going to make it. Brendon always thought Haley was the grand love affair of his love. Fuck, _Haley_. “Spence, what—Haley—you can’t—”

Spencer laughs, and it’s not even strained. “Don’t worry, Bren. It’s nothing, I told you. We just had to—”

“Work shit out, yeah, Cash said.”

Spencer rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “Now I have to go apologize to everyone.”

“Have fun with that,” Brendon says. He bumps their shoulders together, and Spencer slants him a grin, and something inside Brendon relaxes.

“Dudes,” Pete calls out, walking towards them. Mikey’s hanging back, head down and Sidekick out, probably texting his wife. “How awesome is this,” Pete says when he gets to their side. He kicks a foot into Brendon’s thigh. “MTV wants us to perform The Jar at the VMAs. Fucking awesome, right?”

The Jar is quiet, mostly a cappella, two part harmony with some sweet backing in places by Joe, soft, soft maracas from Andy, a stormy drum roll at the end from Spence. It’s kind of an odd choice for the music awards.

“Pete, you don’t even play on that one,” Brendon says.

Mikey snaps his cell shut and stuffs it into his back pocket. “He’s going to announce you guys,” he says, and it’s odd, how close Pete and Mikey are, but Brendon’s mostly used to it by now. Neither of their wives seems to mind, and Pete’s always molesting Patrick all over the place anyway. Mikey rolls his eyes. “They wanted us, but Gee’s still weird about MTV.”

“Gerard’s weird about a lot of things,” Pete says.

Mikey shrugs.

“So.” Pete claps his hands together. “VMAs, Beach Dog goes out in style?”

Spencer makes a face. “Since when is an MTV performance considered going out in style?”

Pete points a finger at him. “Since they agreed to let me and Ashlee wear fursuits.”

Brendon presses his palm over his mouth to stifle a giggle. Pete and his fucking furries. That’ll kind of never get old.

*

Brendon cheats in Vegas. He cuddles up close to Greta and insists on picking their line-up out of Patrick’s hat, and does _amazing_ slight of hand, even though Spencer eyes him from across the room, like he totally knows what Brendon’s up to. He probably does - Spencer and Brendon can’t keep many secrets from each other – but he knows Spencer isn’t going to call him on it.

It’s fitting, Brendon thinks, to end their last festival with the band that started it all with them. He pulls Greta aside and presses their foreheads together and says, “We’ll open with Found Days,” and Greta nods without moving away.

She takes one of his hands, wraps her fingers tight around it. “Let’s do Featherlight,” she says.

Brendon’s laugh is maybe a little watery. “We don’t have enough strings.”

“I don’t care. Pete can call in a fucking orchestra, right?” Greta says fiercely, and Brendon thinks this is probably a pretty big deal for her, too.

Brendon nods. “Okay, yeah, we’ll do Featherlight.” This’ll be for them, and who the hell cares if only a third of the crowd has ever even heard of _Softly_.

Spencer asks, “What are you two whispering about?” wrapping an arm around Greta’s waist.

“Robots,” Brendon says.

“There’s a plague, it’s so sad,” Greta says earnestly.

“A robot plague,” Spencer says, one eyebrow arched.

Greta threads her fingers with Spencer’s, lying flat on her stomach. She tips her head towards him and says, “What will you do, Spencer Smith, when they come for your family?”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “Seriously, you two should never be left alone.”

“They’ll eat your pets,” Brendon says. “Your goldfish, even, they can’t resist those tiny adorable fish.”

“How are you still alive?” Spencer asks.

Brendon grins. “Zack’s pretty handy at running my life.”

“That makes total sense,” Greta says, but Brendon knows she’s joking. She drops Spencer’s hand and pulls Brendon in for a hug. “Hey,” she says in his ear, “this has been awesome.”

He squeezes her back, watches Spencer over her shoulder. He’s got a hip cocked and a bemused smile and he looks almost exactly the same as when they’d first started out, just maybe a little broader and bearded. He has the same way of slouching, still managing to appear completely confident and sure.

“Yeah,” Brendon says. “It really sort of has.”

*

On Sunday, Ritter loses his voice and Brendon sings Steal My War with Wheeler instead. It’s eerie and slightly more haunting and Brendon’s momentarily disappointed that they’d recorded it with Ritter. He doesn’t say that, of course, and Ritter’s a wreck about it, about messing up the festival, but he can only belt out one AAR hit before his throat closes down completely and Wheeler apologizes to the crowd, and The Joy Formidable obligingly double their set to make up for it.

It’s their last show. Brendon isn’t going to let anything bring him down.

On Sunday night, The Hush Sound opens with Found Days, with strident, loud guitars, and brash vocals. They segue into the softer Your Bones Dance Home, Bob’s voice opposite Brendon’s, a story told with give and take. Afterwards, Brendon and Spencer watch the rest of their set from the wings, and just when the last notes echo into the night air, when Greta says a sweet thank-you to the crowd, bantering a little with Chris, Brendon steps out again, one arm raised in greeting.

He steals Greta’s mike with a grin and says, “So we’ve got one more song for you,” and the cheers are nearly deafening.

Six metal chairs are hastily set up on a corner of the stage by techs. They hadn’t been at soundcheck, so it’s a surprise for Brendon to see his old Palo Verde music teacher. It’s a surprise to see six awestruck teens settle into seats, violins at the ready, one lonely cello. They’ve had two and a half days to prepare, and they aren’t professionals, but this is just like Pete, to pull something like this off.

Brendon nods to them, waits for Spencer to switch places with Darren, for Greta to move behind the keyboard, Bob and his guitar at her side. Finally, he says, “This is called Arch of Featherlight, and it’s for Lissa.”

*

After festivals, Brendon always crashes for at least a week, and he, Lissa and Zack veg out on junk food and made for TV movies and cartoons and for once Zack doesn’t say anything about eating healthy or exercising or keeping busy. Brendon’s totally thankful, because he needs the downtime.

He doesn’t see Spencer for nearly two weeks, because Haley’s in town, but then all of Fall Out Boy shows up, and they start work on The Jar for the VMAs. Patrick has some ideas. Patrick’s usually awesome at ideas, so Brendon doesn’t really mind.

“So,” Patrick says, tugging on the brim of his hat. His head’s down and Brendon can’t see his eyes.

Brendon leans back against his kitchen sink, hands curling along the counter. “Yeah?”

“I talked to Ryan and Jon. You really want to do this?”

“Uh.” It’s not that Brendon doesn’t want to, it’s just that he’s not entirely sure what _this_ is yet. Also, he’d been kind of expecting this conversation from Pete, you know, the one that’ll actually draft their contracts.

Patrick tilts his head back, looks up at him. With quiet intensity, he says, “Ryan really wants this, Bren. He won’t say it, but.” He shrugs. “You just gotta be serious about it from the beginning, okay?”

“Patrick, yeah, I’m totally.” He’s serious. He’s so serious, because no matter what happens, he wants Ryan and Jon in on it with them. He definitely wants that. “Spencer and me, we have no clue what we’re doing, Patrick, but we’re serious about Ryan and Jon.”

Patrick stares at him, eyes narrowed.

Brendon holds up his hands. “Really, ‘Trick,” he says. He can’t make any promises that it’ll work out, but he wants to _try_. He’s pretty sure Spencer wants to, too.

Patrick nods. “Okay.”

*

They’ve done the VMAs before, eleven years ago with _Holy Places_. It’d been kind of a disaster, since Hetfield showed up late and Ulrich hadn’t shown up at all, but they’d made it through and now Brendon is only a slightly nervous mess.

“Oh god,” Brendon says. “I’m gonna be sick.”

The makeup artist steps hastily away.

Spencer rolls his eyes. “You’re fine.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve got, like, a fucking _drum roll_.”

“Dad!” Lissa says, shocked. She’s standing with Zack, one of his hands heavy on her shoulder to keep her still.

“Ear muffs,” Brendon says.

“I’m _thirteen_.”

“Please,” Brendon grimaces, “stop saying that.” He can’t believe he has a teenager. He remembers being a teenager. He doesn’t want any teenage boys getting their hands anywhere near Lissa.

Some man with a clipboard and a headset walks up to them and says, “You guys have ten minutes,” and Brendon maybe starts hyperventilating. It’s stupid. He’s been performing for over a decade to crowds of thousands, and one bad MTV spotlight has him second guessing everything.

Spencer sees Haley and wanders off to say hi, and then Brendon blinks and thinks maybe he’s hallucinating, because there’s Jon Walker standing in front of him, and Jon Walker’s in Chicago, not LA, he’s sure of it. “Um.”

Jon’s got a bright neon backstage pass hanging around his neck and a big, huge grin lighting up his face. “Wow,” he says. “This is kind of awesome.”

“Um,” Brendon says again. “Jon?”

Jon’s smile falls a little, and he fidgets with the pockets of his jacket and he doesn’t, like, lunge forward to hug Brendon, so it’s kind of almost exactly how they left off back in Chicago. “We’re in town working with Kelly Clarkson,” Jon says. “Spencer left us passes.”

Brendon spots Ryan in the distance, talking with Pete. He nods. “Cool.”

“Yeah, so.” Jon bobs his head, then blurts out, “So I don’t know what I did? But, like, it’s been a weird year.”

Brendon can’t help it. He laughs, tension seeping out of his body. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I. I am,” Jon says, and it’s ridiculous, because neither of them have anything to apologize for, not really.

“Five minutes, Mr. Urie,” the clipboard guy says, swinging by them again. “You need to get out on stage.”

Brendon takes a shuddery breath.

“Dude, you’re not nervous, are you?” Jon asks, incredulous.

“I’m—”

“Come on, Bren,” Spencer says, shackling the back of his neck and giving him a shake as he walks by. “Let’s go.”

Brendon steps close and leans into Jon, giving him a half-hug that would’ve been awkward ten minutes ago. “I’m sort of terrified,” he whispers.

“Hey. Hey, no,” Jon curls a hand into Brendon’s plaid shirt, fingers slipping past the buttons, and he presses a dry kiss against the corner of Brendon’s mouth, lips slightly parted.

Brendon’s too startled to do anything other than suck in a quick breath. “Jon, what—”

“You better get out there before that dude has an aneurism,” Jon says, nodding nonchalantly towards clipboard guy, like he hadn’t just _kissed Brendon_ , what the hell.

“What about—”

“Brendon, get your ass over here,” Patrick half shouts, waving from the wings.

Jon gives him a shove in the middle of his back. “Go.”

Brendon twists around to frown at him. “Right, um—”

“I will kill you, Urie.” Patrick’s kind of red in the face. Patrick’s temper is not to be messed with. Brendon gets his ass out on stage.

*

Brendon survives The Jar, it’s a pretty awesome performance, actually, and then Pete and Ashlee do a mini retrospective on Beach Dog and it’s, okay, it’s kind of amazing and Brendon sort of cries a little, because Pete is occasionally the best, most thoughtful dude in the world when he’s not being a complete douche, and Brendon loves him.

He loops his arms around him backstage and says, “I love you, Pete, geez.”

Pete pats his back. “I know, dude.”

Ashlee cages his face in her hands and says, “You deserved it, sweetie,” and Ashlee is almost as fucking weird as Pete, but Brendon loves her, too.

Even Spencer has a suspect sheen in his eyes when he kisses Ashlee’s cheek and gives her a soft, “Thank you.”

When Brendon swings around, looking for Jon as they’re hustled along and out of the way of other performers and announcers, he can’t find him, and on the one hand it really sort of bugs him, because what the _hell_ , Jon Walker, but on the other he’s pretty relieved. The night’s been hectic and nerve-wracking and Brendon doesn’t need more drama. He needs Lissa and a pint of ice cream and his over-stuffed couch. Zack can come too if he wants.

“Dad, dad,” Lissa says, breaking away from Zack and running towards him, jumping up into his arms.

He oofs and staggers a little because she’s totally getting too big for that, and Brendon’s little for a guy, he knows this. Lissa’s already up to his shoulder.

She slides back down to the ground and says, “You were so great, dad,” arms around his middle, and Brendon feels a rush of pride, because, hey, as long as his little girl thinks he did good, well. That’s everything.

“What about me, kid?” Spencer asks, lightly knuckling her shoulder.

“Your fucking drum roll was awesome, Uncle Spence,” Lissa says, and Spencer laughs and Brendon tries to give her a stern face, but. She’s totally using the innocent baby deer eyes on them, and it’s a special night, anyhow.

Brendon says, “You’re so lucky Zack didn’t hear you.”

Spencer snorts and, okay, he might have a point, because Zack would’ve totally blamed that on Brendon.

Zack can be so _unfair_.

*

Kit Walker has green hair. Brendon plans on denying this has anything to do with Lissa’s influence over him, even though Lissa came down to breakfast three days ago with blue stripes all over her head.

“Your hair’s green,” Brendon says, leaning onto the doorknob and gesturing him inside the house.

“I know, isn’t it cool? Dad did it.”

“I bet your mom’s thrilled,” Brendon says. He ignores the implication that Kit’s dad is in town. He wonders why he didn’t know.

Kit gives him a half-shrug, grinning.

Brendon hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s in her room, go on up.”

Just as Kit disappears up the stairs, Brendon’s cell vibrates in his pocket. It’s a text from Jon, and Brendon smiles a little. _u rdy?_ it reads.

Brendon writes back, _lets do this_ , and it isn’t until after he hits send that he realizes that could be read a couple different ways. He bites his lip and bounces on his heels and he’s about to send something else when there’s a knock at the door.

Jon’s there, grinning, and he grabs hold of Brendon’s biceps, walks him backwards until he hits the doorjamb to the den.

“I think maybe this is where we were heading. Before,” Jon says, and Brendon’s heart is beating up into his throat, and Jon’s so close he can feel heat all along his body, even though they’re not even touching anywhere except for Jon’s hands on his arms.

Brendon licks his lips. “But I. I saw you,” he says.

Jon frowns, lets up a little on his grip. “What?”

“With Cassie.” He takes a deep breath. “In the kitchen, I. I came over to talk and you were.” He stops, turns his head away, feels the flush on his cheeks. It’s as embarrassing as any other time he’s blushed, and he’s not, like, a _kid_ anymore, geez.

“With.” Jon butts his forehead softly into Brendon’s cheek and Brendon huffs out a laugh. “Bren, dude, Cassie and I are—we’re close. I love Cassie. I’m just not _in_ love with her anymore.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know what you saw, but it wasn’t anything,” Jon says.

Brendon says, “Oh,” again, feeling really, really dumb.

“Yeah.” Jon grins. He grins, and Brendon can’t stand it.

Arms still caught, he pushes even closer to Jon and presses their mouths together and Jon’s only startled for a second, less than a second even, and he loosens his hold on Brendon to wrap one hand around his nape, to nudge his mouth open with a thumb on his jaw.

“You have a really awesome mouth,” Brendon says, and he can feel Jon’s answering smile, feel Jon’s teeth lightly tug against Brendon’s bottom lip.

Jon says, “If our kids weren’t somewhere in this house, I’d show you exactly how awesome,” and Brendon has never wished for Zack to appear so hard in his life before. Zack would totally make Lissa and Kit go outside and play soccer or softball or whatever. Zack is never getting a day off ever again.

“Dad,” Lissa yells down the steps. “Dad, can we watch Tomb Raider?”

Brendon groans. “Kids suck.”

Jon laughs. “Yeah, but they make really cool minions.”

*

“Ryan Ross,” Brendon shouts when he enters Spencer’s kitchen, then leaps onto Ryan’s back and, since Ryan’s a tiny twig of a man, they go down hard.

“I hate you,” Ryan says. Groans, really, and he jabs sharp elbows into Brendon’s stomach until Brendon rolls off him, laughing.

Brendon bats his eyelashes at him when he turns over. “You love me. You adore me. You can’t wait to spend every single day with me for the rest of our lives.”

“No. Just.” Ryan shakes his head. “No.”

Spencer hauls Brendon to his feet, then stretches a hand out for Ryan. “Sorry,” he says, and Brendon punches him in the arm, because he totally doesn’t have to apologize for him, seriously, and he knows it.

“Spencer.”

“Ow, yeah, whatever,” Spencer says, rubbing his arm and mock glaring.

Jon has his hands in his pockets, a wide smile on his face. “So we’re doing this.”

“No,” Ryan says again. “We’re not doing anything. This is—I’m not a performer.”

“You can’t hide behind your amazing words forever, Ross,” Brendon says. He pokes him in the belly. Ryan frowns and Brendon leans towards him and whispers, “Don’t you ever want to _keep_ one, keep it for yourself?” He doesn’t understand how Jon and Ryan can write whatever’s deep down inside and then give it all away, like it doesn’t mean anything.

“Ryan,” Spencer says, and then they do some sort of freaky mind-meld thing that makes Brendon not at all jealous, no sir, staring into each other’s eyes. Finally, he says, “You’re here,” and that must count for something, because the line of Ryan’s shoulders melts a little.

“Yeah.”

“See.” Jon wraps an arm around Brendon’s waist. “This’ll be great. I haven’t been in a band since I was seventeen.”

Ryan frowns. “We’re gonna suck.”

“Wow, way to be positive,” Brendon says. “We’re not gonna _suck_ , Ryan. Spence and I are consummate professionals. You just have to stand there and play passable guitar.”

Spencer punches Brendon in the arm.

Ryan cracks a grin at Brendon’s pained yelp, so that’s something.

“What we need,” Jon says, arm tightening around Brendon, “is a really kick-ass name.”

Brendon nods. “Names are important. It could make or break us. Too bad we can’t use, like, Son of Beach Dog or, or Beach Dog II,” he does awesome jazz hands, “The Return of Beach Dog.”

Spencer rolls his eyes. He’s got an I-can’t-believe-I-know-you set to his mouth, and Brendon is totally going to tickle that off his face. Just as soon as Jon lets him go.

Jon digs his fingers into Brendon’s ribs and Brendon squirms against him, because Jon plays dirty. He thinks maybe he and Spencer have been trading tricks.

“So,” Ryan says, tapping a creepy long finger on his chin. He tugs his newsboy cap over to a rakish angle, cuts his teeth a little into his lower lip. “So there’s this song called Panic…”

  


 


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